France / Fleming block of flats

When confronted with the Fleming housing block, one has impression it is slowly falling sideways. Like a block of granite, turned in upon itself, it crushes the passer-by. Its façade is harsh and unforgiving. Those who live here call it the Titanic. Rumour has it that the inhabitants of Fleming are "dirty and wicked." Coming from here is something one keeps for oneself.

In the belly of the beast, the structure of the apartments is repetitive, but yields to the occupants and their cultural background. Upon entering the building, one clings to the walls of the elevator to avoid the puddles of urine spilled there every night. Puddles of urine as the political act of a minority of young and still hopeful rebels - pissing on society. In this culture it is clear that the minimum is already a source of satisfaction. Inhabitants get used to the environment and come to accept it as practical, with its easy accessibility and nearby convenience stores. One has to admit that this is good quality housing. Well designed, with large rooms, well-equipped kitchens, and thick concrete walls which insulate one from the neighboring apartments. The unknown is always fearful; better to stick with what we’ve got and try to be satisfied rather than to dream of a better future and risk disappointment. Ordinary people live here, each of them with their peculiarities, making them unique and remarkable human-beings. Fleming, this huge and homogeneous housing block, only hides differences and multiplicity. It does not erase them.

The caretakers / Testimony

Sometimes, when you’re in the office, you forget the mass above your head. The lodge is a haven, an airlock, from where you listen to others and are governed by the law of silence. The caretakers proposed to pose for me imitating the three wise monkeys. I suggested that they pose in the boiler room, which, for a time, was from where the local drug dealers ran their business.

Testimony in the lodge: "And the people, the people are every day - well, it’s not every day fortunately - these are people who have big problems in their lives and these problems, they come here to spit them out in your face. Ultimately, you, you’re a buffer, a sponge. But at some point, the sponge is full, and it can’t absorb any more. It's over. For some tenants you’re a doormat. What I mean is, imagine they have a pair of trainers, their lives are shit, so their trainers are covered in shit, so because their life is shit, they come and wipe their shit all over you, like a doormat. Wipe, wipe, wipe, all the shit in their life, all over you. Once there was an power cut - if you want to listen, this will take a while - a power cut the evening of 24 December, on Christmas Eve. This guy comes into the office, he almost killed Jerome and I. Super aggressive. He didn’t want to understand that it was the power company that had cut off half of Bonneuil. For him it was the guards, it was us who were responsible for the outage. That's it. It's like that. You see, Stephane, can you see me go nuts? Sometimes I go nuts. I can’t take it... we are human. We’re human beings.” “You referred to B.?” “Look, B., you’ve seen the guy. Some bloke throws a bottle at his car, and guess what, he assaults me! He comes over, I open the window. Even though we're closed, I open the window. B., he assaults me. He says, "you know their NAMES, it’s your FAULT, it’s YOU, it’s YOU, it’s YOU." He’s like that. Me, anyhow. In the evening when I get home, you know, the first thing I do is talk to my wife, she’s my psychologist. I puke. BOUÂÂRGH. It's really... you know... I talk like that... it’s vomit, I puke it all back up, because if I were to keep it inside, day after day, I would... I would go nuts, I’d go really crazy. You... you go nuts. You hear of kids who go hungry, you hear of nasty guys who beat up their wives, guys who beat up their kids, you're ... pfff ... it's crazy. There are some who’re no longer pulling the devil by the tail, they’re pulling him by the balls! And then there’s death. The death of people, that’s ... it’s ... old age, the sadness of aging in a housing block is, it's a crazy thing. You’ve got old folk, and their only means of communication, it's you. Me, I had a tenant - it's a shame, she died - I went to see her twice a month because her son didn’t give a shit about her. And me, I was the only one. My, how we talked! I wrote her cheques, and she spoke to nobody else. That's heavy. When you see it. I tell myself, I fucking hope I don’t end up like that. I hope neither my wife nor I end up like that. I don’t want anyone to end up like that. It is sad to be closed in on oneself, and not talk to people. Human beings need to communicate."